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An hour later we walk toward the front of the shop. I’m carrying four—yes, four—baskets, two in each hand, all of them loaded with books. I refused to let her carry any of the baskets. She protested at first, then finally relented when I told her it would save me time as I’d include it as part of my daily workout routine. She was disbelieving until I explained to her I have a daily workout routine to stay in shape for the screen. Heaving the weight of these books would help me offset some of the time I’d have otherwise spent at the gym. And I’m not lying. My biceps strain and my triceps protest. A burn tugs at my calves.Who knew carrying books would provide such a work out? Maybe I should replace my weights with spicy novels?
"Hey, hold on, we haven’t paid yet," she calls out.
I glance over my shoulder to find she’s stopped in front of the cashier’s counter.
She looks around. "Why is there no-one at the cash desk?" She frowns, then straightens. "For that matter, why are we the only ones in the store?"
I chuckle. She was so entranced by the books, it’s the first time she’s noticing we're the only ones in the store.
"It’s paid for," I explain.
"I didn’t see you pay for it."
"Believe me, it’s taken care of."
She purses her lips. "I’m confused. There’s no one here, but the store is open because nobody stopped us from coming in. Also—" She presses a finger to her cheek. "I thought you were famous?"
"I am."
"But no one stopped you for autographs, because there’s no one in here, because…" she draws down her brows. "What’s happening, Declan? What are you not telling me?"
"Can we have this conversation after we get home?"
She looks past me and her brow clears. "I see."
"What do you mean?"
"There’s no one in here because they’re all out there."
I turn around, and sure enough, there’s a crowd of photographers clustered around the entrance on the other side of the double doors that lead out of the bookshop.
"Bloody fuck." I reach for my phone when it rings. Rick’s name shows up on the screen. "There are—"
"—paps in the front. Come around to the back door. I’m waiting with the limo."
Motherfucker’s on the ball when it comes to issues of security. I made the right decision hiring him, unlike my dubious idea to bring her with me to LA. The jury’s still out on that one.
I pivot and walk back toward her. "Come on." I want to grab her hand, but I’m still holding the baskets with her books. So, I jerk my chin in the direction of the back door. "Rick’s waiting there." I march ahead of her, then glance over to find she hasn’t moved.
"The fuck, woman? Can’t you do what you’re told to do, for once?"
Her lips thin. "If I wanted to be ordered around by an asshole of a man, I could've stayed back and married another Mafia guy."
"And you knew what you were getting into when you agreed to come with me."
She blinks rapidly. "If I’d known you were going to give me whiplash at every turn, I might not have."
Flashes go off outside the glass doors at the entrance.
"We need to go before the paps decide they’ll risk breaking into private property. Or figure out we're headed to the back door."
She glances over her shoulder then back at me. "But don’t we have to pay for the boo—"
"Fuck the books. I own the bloody bookshop, so I don’t need to pay for anything in here. Are you satisfied?"
She gapes. "Y-y-y-y-you own the shop."
